


How Soon Is Now?

by dragonQuill907



Series: Smithslock Oneshots [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gay Bar, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Uni!lock, University AU, mild language because Irene cannot be controlled, they drink alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7296709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Irene dragged Sherlock to an LGBT+ club, he hadn't expected to run into decidedly-straight, crush-from-chemistry-class John Watson.</p><p>Based on the song "How Soon Is Now?" by The Smiths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Soon Is Now?

**Author's Note:**

> Since I'm obsessed with both The Smiths and Sherlock, I'm combining the two to make... whatever this is. Each fic is a oneshot that is based on a song by The Smiths.
> 
> Requests for AUs (femlock, teenlock, soulmates, whatever) are welcome because these are going to be kind of random.
> 
> Also, feedback fuels me so leave kudos and maybe a comment? :)
> 
> Thanks to @EmmaLockWrites for being the best beta I could ask for!

This fanfiction is based on "How Soon Is Now?" by The Smiths. The lyrics can be found [here](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/smiths/howsoonisnow.html) and the song itself is [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pEq8DBxm0J4)

* * *

 

“Hey, Sherlock,” Irene greeted, standing outside his flat in a form-fitting leather jacket and dark skinny jeans. She looked as if she would be more comfortable in the fifties, her hair curled and pinned to her head, bright red lipstick making her teeth look even whiter. “Are you busy?”

Sherlock looked down at his own clothes - gray pajamas and his favorite silk dressing gown - before shaking his head.

“Great!” she gushed. “I was supposed to meet Kate in town, and she bailed on me last minute.”

“No.”

Irene’s crimson smile turned into a sharp frown.

“What do you mean, ‘no?’” she whined. “I haven’t even asked anything of you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yet. All right then, out with it.”

“There’s a club if you’d like to go-”

“No. I knew you were settling for my company instead, but I’m not going out at… half past ten,” refused Sherlock, checking the time on his phone. “I have experiments I could be doing, and you know clubs aren’t my area.”

“Please, ‘Lock!” Irene begged. “I look too good _not_ to go out.”

Sherlock merely shrugged. “So go without me,” he stated flatly.

Irene pouted, and, if Sherlock had been inclined towards women, it might have swayed him. Instead, he simply raised an eyebrow, waiting for more convincing argument.

“You could meet somebody who really loves you, you know.”

Sherlock fought the urge to scoff and lost. “Please. That only happens in those detestable romantic fiction novels you call literature. If - and I mean _if_ \- I chose to go with you tonight, I’d stand on my own, leave on my own, and go home _on my own._ ”

“Stop being so melodramatic and come out with me,” Irene demanded, stomping a heeled foot. She stuck a hand out to gesture at Sherlock’s body, the other planted firmly on her hip. “Look at you! Haven’t even showered in days, I’ll bet. That’s what spring holiday does to you, huh? You’re so lethargic and concerned about your experiments that you just let yourself go. I can’t believe you, Sherlock Holmes. These are your university years, you know. You’re _twenty-two_ ! Live a little, Lock! Here I am, trying to help you pull yourself out of this hole you’ve dug for yourself, and you’re being an ungrateful prick, as usual. I honestly - _honestly_ \- cannot believe you!”

Sherlock remained unimpressed his his friend’s efforts but, sighing deeply, invited her in anyway. Irene pouted as she entered his flat, her heels clicking against the old wooden floors.

“Is Victor in?” she asked conversationally. When Sherlock shook his head, she threw herself onto the settee and continued, “Oh, so Victor Trevor, the only man at this hellish university who’s _less-liked than you,_ has a social life! That’s amazing. Oh, it’s bloody brilliant.”

“Do you want anything else?” Sherlock asked, fidgeting noticeably. If Irene knew how pressing his experiments were, she’d understand why Sherlock really couldn’t leave the flat.

“I want you to go out with me because I look damn sexy, but I’m not getting that, apparently,” she said, kicking off her shoes. “So you’re going to shower and then come watch The Office with me. Did you know it’s on Netflix? I only saw it the other day. I feel personally cheated.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “What?”

“The telly show with the one who looks like Jo-”

“I know which show you’re talking about!” Sherlock snapped. “Why do you expect me to- oh. She didn’t bail on you, did she?”

Irene pursed her lips. “No.”

“She left you.”

“Excellent deduction. Don’t know why it took you so long,” she muttered, slouching into the sofa cushions.

Sherlock raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed. “Let me put my microscope away. You’re lucky I haven’t started anything crucial.”

Irene perked up immediately, straightening her jacket and jumping to her feet. “Are you serious?”

“Sadly.”

“And you’ll try to have fun?” she coaxed, shoving her feet back into her heels.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied stoically. “Shall I pretend to be your boyfriend to ward off interested heterosexuals?”

“Oh, baby,” Irene sang, grinning wildly, “where we’re going, there _are_ no interested heterosexuals.”

\---------

“So it’s not really a club, and it’s not really a bar, but it’s definitely gay,” Irene explained, leading Sherlock down a street not far from campus. “Like, so gay. Gayer than _you_ , and that’s saying a lot.” Sherlock didn’t bother disagreeing with her. “It’s quite nice. I’ve been there a couple of times. Everyone’s just very friendly. I love the staff. Thought about being a bartender there, once or twice.”

“Wonderful,” Sherlock mused, rolling his eyes. “I adore spending my time surrounded by people who can be described as ‘very friendly.’”

Irene pouted again. “You’re going to have fun with me, remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” Sherlock confirmed, breathing in the brisk night air.

\---------

As soon as Sherlock stepped into ‘The Forge,’ he was accosted by noise and _people_. Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to let his eyes adjust to the ever-changing lights that had blinded him as soon as the bouncer opened the doors. He let out a small chuckle when he realized what it was.

“Are they shining pride colors on a disco ball?”

Irene squealed. “Yes! And it changes flag colors every now and then.”

Sherlock nodded as, almost as soon as Irene had stopped speaking, the disco ball lit up in pink, purple, and blue. There was monstrous whooping and cheering from the (presumably) bisexual men and women in the crowd.

The ‘club’ section of the building was separated from the ‘bar’ section by a half-flight of stairs. The bar area was much, _much_ calmer, with only the afterthought of music drifting in from the dancefloor. It was brighter, too, and less populated, which made Sherlock instantly like it more than the club. Irene dragged him to the bar and hopped onto a stool immediately, gesturing with a beckoning hand for Sherlock to follow. He did so sluggishly, earning a quick smile and a halfhearted glare.

The bartender, a mousy-haired girl wearing a poodle skirt, greeted them happily.

“Hiya! My name’s Molly,” she said, grinning. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Shot of whiskey for me, please,” Irene replied, batting her eyelashes. “Sherlock here’ll have a rum and coke.”

“All right, I’ll just need an ID before I can get that for you,” Molly said. She checked their student IDs and nodded sagely. “I’ll get those right away. That greaser over there behind the bar is Greg. Just call one of us if you need anything!”

“It’s greaser night,” Irene stage-whispered as the bartender flounced off. “That’s why she’s dressed as a square.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked, feigning ignorance. He gestured to his ripped jeans and tight black t-shirt. “Is _that_ why you had me dress in this ridiculous outfit?”

Irene put a hand to her chest, shocked. “Sherlock Holmes! I cannot believe you! You look hot in that outfit! If only you’d had a leather jacket… It really would’ve pulled it all together. At least you have enough hair gel in your bathroom to last an entire year.”

“I’m still angry with you about that,” Sherlock shot back. He pointed at his hair, which was slicked back, locked in a greased wave. A single curl had been artfully arranged to hang oh-so-delicately over his forehead. “You used nearly half a container of gel for this!”

“You have plenty more. Plus, you look good. Damn, I can work miracles,” Irene mused. “That lone little curl in front - ah! All the boys will be fawning over you, and you’ll have _me_ to thank.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes.

Just then, Molly reappeared with their drinks. Irene held her back, grinning like mad.

“Molly, dear,” she said, “don’t you think Sherlock looks gorgeous? He doesn’t seem to think the gel was necessary.”

The bartender blushed and stammered, “Well, I- um. Your hair. It- It looks very good. Makes your cheekbones look very sharp.”

Irene nodded enthusiastically, slamming her free hand onto the bar. “That’s what I told him!”

“She’s just trying to prove me wrong,” Sherlock protested, shaking his head at Molly. “You don’t have to listen to her. I barely do.”

“Hey!”

As Molly left to inquire after another patron, Sherlock smirked and took a sip of his drink. He nearly gagged as Irene picked up hers.

“I’ll never understand how you can stomach that,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “It burns my throat when it goes down.”

“One could say the same about cocks, but you seem to like those just fine.”

“That’s- Oh, God. Stop,” Sherlock pleaded. “How do you even know that?”

“No reason. And it only burns so much because you never drink it,” Irene grumbled, taking another swig.

\---------

When they’d both finished a few drinks, Irene declared that they simply _must_ go dancing, as the gay pride flag had been shining on the disco ball for nearly three minutes, and it _had_ to be a sign for the great Sherlock Holmes to show off his dancing skills for all to see. Sherlock, predictably, had disagreed.

“I do ballet, Irene, not _grinding_ ,” Sherlock protested. “If you want to dance, go ahead. I’ll be here. Molly can keep me company.” Irene pouted, but Sherlock shook his head. “Go dance with a pretty girl and forget all about Kate, okay? Just don’t go home with anyone you aren’t sure about.”

“Yes, Mum,” Irene moaned. “I’ll have all sorts of fun without you.”

She hopped off the stool and sauntered out into the club, the fact that she had consumed a few alcoholic beverages quite noticeable, leaving Sherlock alone at the bar, nursing his third rum and coke of the evening.

“Did your girlfriend leave without you?” came a small voice. Sherlock looked up to see Molly standing nervously in front of him.

“Irene’s not my girlfriend. This is a gay club, after all.”

“LGBT plus,” Molly corrected. “We get all sorts ‘round here. Lesbian, gay, bi, pan, ace. It’s all fine. So… do you?”

“I’m sorry?”

Molly blushed. “Have a girlfriend, I mean. Or a boyfriend. Or somewhere in between.”

“No.”

“Do you have your eye on anyone in particular?”

Sherlock tilted his head, eying Molly warily. It seemed as if she was asking out of genuine curiosity rather than misguided attraction, so Sherlock couldn’t think of a reason not to answer her.

“Yes,” he began cautiously as he eyed the people sitting around them out of habit. “He was in my chemistry class last semester. We’re… acquaintances, of sorts. He’s too kind, extremely bullheaded, and unceasingly loyal. He sees the good in everyone, even where there is none. He’s… He’s not interested in men.”

Molly winced and shook her head. “That’s rule number one.”

“Never fall for the straight boy,” Sherlock sighed as he stared dismally down into his nearly empty glass. “I’m aware. All my hope is gone.”

“Hey,” Molly said, smiling softly, “you’ll find someone any day now.”

Sherlock smiled bitterly. “Of course I will. And, when you say ‘now,’ when exactly do you mean?”

Molly pursed her lips. “How old are you, again? Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-two.”

Molly shook her head. “You have time, Sherlock.”

\---------

In fact, Sherlock had about nineteen minutes before John Watson strolled into the bar, his golden hair a bit disheveled. He wore a black leather jacket over a tight white shirt, combat boots, and fitted jeans. John sauntered in such a way that _everything_ was accented, particularly the tightness of his trousers over the curve of his arse. He was, as usual, incomparably good-looking.

Before the blond could catch sight of him, Sherlock whipped around to face the bar, his face flushing already, turning bright pink from his neck to his ears. John catching him at an LGBT+ bar was not the way he’d wanted to come out. He hadn’t planned on ever coming out, really. Everyone who needed to know knew. It wasn’t anyone’s business who Sherlock fancied, and he didn’t fancy enough people for it to come up in conversation. Sherlock wasn’t closeted. He was just… not advertising.

Any hope of Sherlock getting out of the club unnoticed flew out the window as John sat his godly arse on the barstool next to him.

“Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe,” John mused. “Never thought I’d see you here.”

“Nor I you,” Sherlock said, mentally cursing himself. Reverting back to the 1800s wasn’t quite ordinary. “Do you come here often?”

John laughed like a warm fireplace and smiled like sunlight. “That’s the worst line you could drop!”

Sherlock blushed. “I meant it as a question, not as a _line_. I’ve much more finesse than that.”

John laughed again. “My sister loves it here. Thought she’d bring me today. How about you? How often do you frequent this place? No offense, but clubs don’t really seem like your scene.”

“They aren’t,” Sherlock replied, deadpan. “Irene dragged me here because her girlfriend broke up with her. It was either this or binge-watching The Office.”

“What?”

“The telly show with the actor who-”

“No, I know which show you’re talking about,” John replied, grinning. “It’s just… You turned down watching The Office to go clubbing?”

“Actually, I’ve only spent time at the bar. I’ve grown quite close to Molly.” At John’s confused expression, Sherlock added, “The bartender.”

“Speaking of the bartender,” John muttered, sending a smile and a wave down to Molly.

The girl nodded her head, acknowledging the blond, and briskly made her way down the bar. She grinned contagiously at both John and Sherlock; only John seemed to be affected, grinning brilliantly back.

“Hiya! I’m Molly. What can I get you tonight?” she asked. “After ID, of course.”

John flashed his own university ID before ordering. “Well, Sherlock’s a few drinks ahead of me, so I’ll take a shot of bourbon. Whatever you have here.”

Molly blushed prettily. “Sure thing… um…”

“John,” the man in question finished.

Molly to raised her eyebrows slightly and glanced at Sherlock before grinning again.

“Right away, John.” With a swoosh of her poodle skirt and a covert wink in Sherlock’s direction, she was back down the bar to prepare John’s drink.

John smiled as he turned back to Sherlock, and the taller man thought he could drown in John’s warmth.

“I’m guessing Irene forced you into the greaser getup?” the blond mused, swiping his pink tongue over his bottom lip.

Sherlock nodded, heart fluttering. “Yes. It was tedious.”

“I think you look good,” John said, shamelessly raking his eyes up and down Sherlock’s form. “Black suits you, you know.”

The taller man made a mental note to kiss Irene the next time he saw her.

“Thank you, John,” said Sherlock, trying and failing to restrain his blush. “I- You look… nice.”

“Ta. I was going for ‘dashing,’ or ‘unbearably handsome,’ but I’ll definitely take ‘nice.’”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re those things too.”

John grinned as Molly gracefully slid his shot down the bar towards him; instead of downing it right away, he only let his fingers toy with the outside of the glass, tracing along the edges. “So, uh, Sherlock. I never knew you were… queer.”

“Gay,” Sherlock specified. “Very. If it’s any consolation, I had no idea you were. Or if you even are. Your sister dragged you here, you said, so I…”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John. My apologies. It’s all just… wishful thinking on my part, I suppose,” Sherlock chuckled awkwardly, running his hands through his gelled hair. He frowned at the sticky substance that came off on his fingers.

“I’m bi,” John blurted, handing Sherlock some napkins. “Bisexual. I thought you knew. You’re Sherlock Holmes; you know everything.”

“Oh.”

John chuckled again, running a hand through his hair. “Um. Can I buy you a drink?”

“That would be nice.” Sherlock blushed heavily. “But you don’t need to. I’m- It’s probably not a good idea.”

“What d’you mean?” John questioned.

“It’s not a good idea. I’m not- It won’t-”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted softly, “it’s just a drink. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“But I _want_ it to mean something,” Sherlock protested, staring at his half-finished drink.

John raised his eyebrows. “Great. So do I. So what’s the problem?”

“I can’t,” Sherlock answered. “I’m not… I’m not made for relationships, John. It won’t work.”

“Hey, but relationships have more than one person _trying_ to make it work,” John insisted. “I’m sure if we really put our heads together, we could figure it out.”

“John, I _do_ … have feelings for you, but I’m- difficult, to say the least.”

“Sherlock Holmes, I’ve fancied you since you announced our chemistry professor’s failed engagement and proceeded to correct everything he said for the next half hour. I know about your deductions, and I think they’re brilliant. _You’re_ brilliant. I’ve already waited too long to give up on you because you don’t think you’re worth the trouble. You are human, and you need to be loved just like everybody else does.” John took a deep breath. “So, Sherlock, can I buy you a drink? Or - better yet - do you wanna get out of here? Believe it or not, but, uh, clubs aren’t really my scene either.”

Sherlock’s body was frozen to his seat, his mouth open in shock. He blinked a few times, trying to process all that John had said to him in the last… three minutes and forty-seven seconds.

“I- You think I’m…”

“Brilliant?” John asked, smiling softly. “Yeah, I do. That was a bit much to throw at you all at once, wasn’t it?”

“A bit,” Sherlock squeaked. He cleared his throat. “Do you really think so, or are you saying that to get me to leave with you?”

John shook his head. “I think it’s amazing. Everyone who says otherwise is jealous or scared.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Sure.”

“Jealous that you see things they don’t or scared that you’ll see things they don’t want anyone to see.”

“And do you fall into either category?”

“I’d rather not have some things advertised, but I know there’s nothing I can do to stop you seeing them,” John explained. “I know you’re not exactly looking for it, either. You see it naturally, almost. I trust that you won’t tell anyone anything unsavory about me.”

“A scar on your shoulder is hardly _unsavory_ ,” Sherlock replied. “ _Unsavory_ is Anderson cheating on Sally Donovan with her sister.”

John grinned. “You’re absolutely brilliant.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Would it be rude of me to kiss you right now?” the blond asked, smiling around biting his lip.

Sherlock frowned. “Yes, of course. We’re having a conversation. You’re meant to respond now.”

John’s smile widened. “The kiss was my response, you idiot.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blushed. “I suppose that’s all right, then.”

The taller man’s breath hitched as the other’s hand gently cupped his cheek. John brought their lips together softly, delicately letting Sherlock realize how wanted he was, how needed. John kissed him as if he were made of pearl or porcelain or something equally as precious, and it wasn’t long before Sherlock was leaning into the kiss, resting his hand on John’s knee as the blond carded his fingers through the loose curls on the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

They broke apart with a soft sound. Sherlock opened his eyes dazedly, blinking until John was in focus again, a delighted smile lighting up his features.

“How was that?” John asked happily, his cheeks pinkening.

“Brilliant,” Sherlock replied. “I- I’ll just text Irene. Where did you plan on taking me?”

John grinned. “There’s a Chinese place down the block that’s open until three,” he said. “Sound good?”

Sherlock nodded. “You know, you can always tell the good places by the bottom half of the door handle.”

“Can you really?”

“Well, _I_ can.”

“Of course you can.”

\---------

Molly watched contentedly as John, “the straight one,” left a few bills on the table for both his and Sherlock’s drinks. She had seen them kissing from where she was cleaning some glasses, and a small smile grew on her face. The bartender had seen many kisses during her shifts at the bar, along with brawls and more-than-kisses, of course, but she could tell this meant something more.

She cleaned up John’s untouched glass of bourbon as the two men walked through the club. Molly’s eyes lingered on them long enough to spot the taller man link his fingers through the other’s before they headed out the back door.

No sooner had the doors closed before the woman with Sherlock earlier - Irene, she was sure - grabbed her attention from the bar stools the two men had just vacated.

“Hey, Molly, did you see where Sherlock went?” the woman questioned casually, scanning the surrounding bar area for any sign of her friend.

“He just left with another bloke. John was his name,” she replied, nodding towards the back exit. “Cute couple. I mean, if they were to be one. They would make a cute couple, I think.”

“John? _Chemistry_ John? _Rule-Number-One-Never-Fall-For-The-Straight-Guy_ John?” Irene demanded, leaning forward over the counter. “Are you absolutely sure? John Watson?”

“Blond?”

“Like sand,” the brunette clarified.

Molly grinned, setting down a clean glass. “That’s the one.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Irene mused as she lowered herself into a bar stool. “Did Sherlock let him buy him a drink?”

“No, but they kissed and then-”

“They _kissed_?” Irene yelled as she slammed her palm on the counter, earning puzzled stares from the very few people who still remained in the bar.

“Then they left to go get food, I think. I heard Chinese mentioned.” Molly finished putting the cleaned glasses away and turned back towards Irene.  “He seems very nice, if you were worried.”

“I told him. I fucking _told_ him he could meet somebody who really loves him,” Irene muttered to no one in particular.

Molly hummed in acknowledgement, sighing quietly as she scrubbed the counter with a small rag.

“I suppose we’re all human, after all, and we all need to be loved.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @rachelrose for the song request! It took a while to get out because my inspiration only struck once my wonderful beta was on vacation. Figures. Hope it was more or less what you envisioned :)


End file.
